The Road Not Travelled
by Radentor
Summary: When thoughts of Idrial begin to stir in Berethor's head, he finds he can no longer go through with his engagement to Morwen. With his companions, Elegost and Hadhod in tow, the Captain of the Guard of Minas Tirith must traverse Middle Earth and find love. In this race against time and self doubt, can Berethor overcome himself and meet Idrial before she sets sail for Valinor?
1. Chapter 1

Ever since the beginning of his journey, Berethor had felt as if he were fighting a non-stop battle. He'd traveled Middle-Earth, slaughtering his way through the Dark Lord's minions and following Mithrandir's orders to the letter. And yet for all his accomplishments, for all the glory, for all his battle prowess and his mighty sword arm, he had failed quite miserably.

So thought Berethor as he sat in his old home, the ancestral house of his line, recently restored to its former glory after his ruinous actions and banishment from Minas Tirith. He'd fought alongside the King, Aragorn, upon the fields of Pelennor; the allies he'd found throughout his adventures at his side. Men and women of all civilized races had come together with Berethor as he followed the trail of the Fellowship, Hadhod the Dwarf, Elegost, Morwen, and Eaoden of the race of Men, and of course, Idrial, the she-elf who'd been Berethor's oldest companion. It was she who filled his mind with fanciful daydreams and complicated emotions that tore through his being like fiery beasts. Her face shined brightly in the forefront of his thoughts, the way she always carried herself regally, the way she looked as she slashed a sword through the air, like a beautiful goddess of war…

And yet there Berethor sat, dressed in fine garments befitting the honor he'd reclaimed for his House, wishing for all his power and fame that he could simply see Idrial one last time. For a moment, one wonderful moment, back when they'd first begun their journey, Berethor had thought there was a chance they could be together. They'd fought at each other's side, even shared a moment of passion, but that seemed ages ago. A knock upon the open doorway to his ancestral home brought him back to attention. It was a bright day outside, magnified by the white stone used to build the city, and in the doorway stood a dark figure in clothes just as fine as Berethor's own. A man he'd come to know as a dear friend over their adventures together.

"Berethor, you slouch," Elegost called, "come outside you recluse!"

The man in question, a skilled bowman and member of the Dunedain, leapt inside and quickly threw an arm around Berethor's neck, putting him in a headlock and violently grinding his knuckles onto the top of Berethor's head. The Guard Captain of Minis Tirith broke free of his friend's antics and scowled at him.

"Assaulting a high ranking member of society," Berethor asked accusingly, "that'll get you the stocks… if you're lucky."

"Well, technically, I am the new leader of the Dunedain, as Faramir abandoned the position, and seeing as I report to King Aragorn himself, I think I'm safe in assuming I am out of your jurisdiction," Elegost said, sitting in Berethor's chair and throwing his feet up on the fine wooden table.

"If you're in my city, you're within my jurisdiction," Berethor said, slapping at Elegost's boots to get him to take them from the polished table.

"Still a man of honor, I see," Elegost grumbled with a sigh.

"And you're still a first class upstart," Berethor said.

For a moment there was silence, but then Berethor, who was trying his best to look grim and moody, finally felt the stress of the last few months release, and he felt a smile twitch across his lips as he looked at his friend. Elegost, too, failed at stifling his laughter behind a solemn frown. A guffaw escaped his lips and after a moment both men were laughing heartily.

"I'm glad some things don't change," Berethor said tiredly, gripping the forearm of his comrade and shaking it firmly, "how have you been my friend?"

"Well, I feel about as tired as you look, so I'm pretty much the same as ever," Elegost said, kicking out a chair for Berethor to sit in, "but what of you? I've heard much about your efforts to rebuild and your merciless insistence that we need to maintain vigilance… don't you ever relax your guard?"

It was a question Berethor had heard many times before, from as many people. Even so, his answer was about the same as it always had been.

"No," Berethor said quietly, opening a decanter of hard cider that was a gift from Hadhod and pouring a glass for both himself and Elegost, "and even though Sauron is destroyed, we must remain on our guard."

"But the enemy-"

"Is gone, which means this is the opportune time for him to be replaced, whether by one of his subordinates or perhaps even a domestic threat. The fact remains that there is never truly peace," Berethor said, taking a healthy swig from his clay mug.

"Ugh… your logic, while horribly depressing, still possesses the grain of truth necessary to keep me awake at night," Elegost said, rubbing his temple before taking a drink himself.

"I don't mean to cause you to unrest," Berethor smiled, "I simply wish to make sure people remain at the ready."

"This is all fine and well, but your tone seems unusually grim for a man who plans to be wed soon," Elegost said, raising an eyebrow.

"Where did you hear that?"

"A little bird told me," Elegost replied, leaning forward, "whatever the case, I was shocked when the news reached me by sources other than you. I considered it an affront, considering I was going to be your best man, per our discussions."

Berethor smiled, reminiscing the times they had stayed awake, trying to plan ahead as they traveled Middle Earth in the wake of the Fellowship. Things had seemed so dark and grim that whenever their talks had run dry and they had no more ideas, they often turned to conversations about their futures after the war. During one of those talks, Berethor had indeed promised to make Elegost the best man, along with Hadhod.

"If memory serves, Eaoden was also offered the role of best man," Berethor said.

"Yes, but he turned it down. He did say he would attend the ceremony though," Elegost said, "regardless, I figured the news was false, as I was certain you would have told me personally."

Elegost's tone and his smile remained unchanged, but his eyes seemed a little less friendly, as if he was actually offended by his lack of news.

"There was a wedding," Berethor admitted, "it was barely in its infancy, but in the end…"

"Morwen left you," Elegost asked quietly.

"Yes," Berethor whispered, "she said she could not love a man whose love was already given to another."

Elegost leaned back and crossed his arms, his head hanging over the back of his chair as it all clicked into place.

"Idrial."

Elegost had guessed correctly, for at the very mention of the woman in question Berethor looked both happy and sad, as if he'd eaten the world's most delicious meal, then suddenly become queasy from it. Elegost took another large drink of the cider before wiping his mouth upon his sleeve and resting his elbows on the table.

"Idrial has left for the Grey Havens, she isn't coming back, Berethor. Do you intend to sit about all day doing nothing," Elegost asked, a trace of concern touching his voice.

"Do you think me ignorant as well as stupid? I am well aware that Idrial intends to leave Middle Earth, and as much as I work to keep myself complacent…her face is all I see when I fall asleep, and her wellbeing is the first thing on my mind when I wake the next morning. Elegost, I am aware that she's gone, but the ghost of Idrial haunts me still. And what am I to do, follow her to the Grey Havens? Or perhaps send her a letter? No, Elegost, no one knows better than I that she is gone," Berethor said quietly, draining his cup and standing from his chair.

Elegost stood too, going over to his friend and clapping him upon his shoulder.

"Come now, let's go for a walk, I think I know what will cheer you up!"

Half an hour later, Berethor and Elegost left the estate in the upper ring, headed in the general direction of the palace.

"Where are we going," Berethor asked, unsure of his ally's intentions.

"To the Royal Guest House," Elegost said, "there's someone there that wants to see you."

And so they went, traveling through the white streets of the Gondorian capital, until they finally came to the stairs before the great courtyard, at the peak of the city. They ascended the final stair, and instead of going straight forward, into the chamber housing the throne of Gondor, they marched off to the left, into a grand room that provided foreign dignitaries with plentiful luxuries and a soft place to rest their heads. Elegost lead the way expertly, coming to a stop by a large wooden door with iron fittings. He knocked and then opened the door, completely shattering any preconceptions of respect. Out of the doorway bounced another friend of Berethor's.

"Hadhod!"

"Berethor, my man, how are you? Still taller than me, anyway! And I see you have that rascal, Elegost, with you!"

Hadhod was dressed in a fine, sleeveless chainmail of silvery mithril, and at his hip was a war axe that also gleamed with silvery light. His breeches were clean and unstained and his boots were just as fine, and gleaming with polish. There were a few new lines about the dwarf's eyes, but other than that he seemed as incorrigible as the day Berethor had met him.

Hadhod stepped forward and grasped Berethor about the waist, lifting him as if he were weightless and squeezing the breath from his lungs.

"Ah, it's good to see you, lad. I was hoping you'd visit," the dwarf said happily.

"It's good to see you, too. What brings you to Minas Tirith," Berethor asked.

"Oh, just business," Hadhod said, waving a hand dismissively and looking rather bored at the notion of said business.

"I thought you were a guard from Erebor," Berethor stated, "and now you are a visiting dignitary?"

"Things change," Hadhod grunted, "look at you, lad, you were merely a guard when we started upon our journey. Now you're the Captain of the Guard, and a nobleman. Aye, our lots in life have certainly changed."

"How go things in the Mountain Halls of Erebor," Elegost asked, taking a seat upon the bench used to entertain guests.

Hadhod took a seat in the large, throne like chair opposite, albeit with a little difficulty. Once he'd gotten himself into the chair, he gripped the arms with his strong hands and sighed.

"Honestly, things are not going as well as they should be," Hadhod said, "the fall of Sauron has taken the world by storm, and now that things are changing, many people are looking to make those changes, according to their own ambitions. As a nobleman, I can understand why they seek to change things, but it's all so stifling."

Hadhod, whose dwarven features kept him from reaching the knee high table set before his chair, had to climb down in order to pour and serve the brandy he had set upon the table.

"I really shouldn't," Berethor said as Hadhod held out a glass to him.

"Do you remember what happened the last time you refused a drink from me," Hadhod asked, a dangerous gleam in his eye.

Elegost burst out laughing and Berethor's face grew stony as he recalled it. They had been in Moria, settled about a campfire, when Hadhod took out a bottle of old mead he'd found tucked away in the ruins of the once-great mountain halls. The bottle was passed around the fire, finally coming to Berethor, who refused.

"Either you drink with the warriors," Hadhod said, "or I'll take to calling you as I would a housewife."

"That's unfair," Berethor said, "plenty of housewives are warriors without peer."

"True enough," Hadhod said with a bark of laughter, "but they do not have so much at stake as we do, lass."

Back in the present, Elegost positively howled with laughter, with Hadhod joining in as well.

"You called me 'lass' until I finally took a drink," Berethor said, taking the glass extended to him.

"That I did," Hadhod noted, nodding at his guest before taking a drink straight from the bottle.

A peaceful silence fell across the men as they thought about their pasts together, and even as Berethor sat in Gondor, the world changing rapidly around him, he felt a ghost of the past creep up on him, crippling him with nostalgia.

"This almost feels like déjà vu," he said quietly.

"Agreed," Hadhod said, smiling as he swilled the contents of the bottle.

Another silence fell, but as Hadhod drank more and more, he seemed more and more inquisitive about Berethor and Elegost.

"So, how are you two holding up out on the field, eh," he asked with a minor slur, "the ladies of this kingdom are likely fighting over you, I imagine!"

"I've not found the time to entertain women," Berethor said with a small smile, doing his best to hide his feelings.

"I may not have seen you for a few months, but I still know when you're lying to me, lad…what happened with the fiery, axe wielding redhead? I liked her," Hadhod said, wiggling his bushy eyebrows.

"We had a falling out," Berethor explained shortly.

"He's pining," Elegost explained further.

"For the elf," Hadhod guessed, "Idrial."

"Not that I mind the idle chat about my failed attempts at romance," Berethor said firmly, "but could we please refrain from discussing such topics?"

"Of course, but take it from someone with a bit more life experience, if you don't actively work to change your fate, then are condemned to repeat it indefinitely," Hadhod said sagely.

"Life experience? Tell us, Hadhod, how much life experience do you have, exactly," Elegost asked, slouching back onto the bench, swilling the last dregs of his brandy and casting a mischievous eye at his dwarven ally.

Hadhod huffed and set the bottle of brandy down with a thump before he crossed his arms and upturned his chin. He fingered his beard for a moment before responding in a reserved tone.

"I'm well-traveled, to say the least," Hadhod said, "besides, why should I tell you my age, hmm? You are but a child to my people."

"I thought only women were sensitive about their age! Quickly, Berethor, this is your chance to mock him in retaliation."

"What other advice could you give, oh wise sage of the mountains," Berethor asked jokingly.

"Well, a few pieces of good, general advice never go amiss. Now, most of what I'm about to tell you comes from a mixture of berating from mine own father, and mine own experiences," Hadhod said, pulling out a pipe and lighting it by striking a match against his boot. He drew deeply from the long stem of the pipe before he exhaled through his nostrils, looking like an old bearded dragon spewing fire.

"The first piece, I have already given you," Hadhod said, "you must actively work to change your fate, you cannot sit idly by. Even though you are working to maintain your position, what have you done to better yourself of late?"

"I…"

Berethor was at a loss for words. True enough, he had worked to make up for his banishment from Gondor and he found that his daily physical training was simply keeping him in the same fighting condition he'd been in on the road, but he felt as if he had levelled out, like he had stopped climbing and his power had peaked.

"I haven't," he admitted.

"As I thought," Hadhod said, leaning forward, a knowing light in his eyes, "you will soon feel the lust for adventure. It's only a matter of time."

"I already feel it," Berethor said, "I've felt it since all of us simply splintered off and vanished to our own corners of the world. It seems like forever ago that we were on the road."

"That it does, lad," Hadhod said, "and that ache, that longing, will soon grow and overtake you. Before you know it, you'll be stuck in an emissary's position, traveling between kingdoms and dining with royalty, reveling in your past because it was the best time of your life and it's now gone forever."

"That sound like more a personal problem, my stocky fellow," Elegost said with a smile.

"Stocky as I am, I can still take you down, ranger," Hadhod said, stroking his beard, "or did you forget the last time I decided to teach you a lesson? Anyway, the next piece of general advice is that nothing of value comes easy. Now, this ties in closely to the first bit of advice, but if you have to choose between two paths, always choose the hardest, for that is where the most gain is found."

"And your final piece of advice?"

"Stick to your convictions. A man that is true to himself, through and through, is a man that has nothing to fear and nothing to hide. He lives a life with his heart on his sleeve and does his best in any task he is presented with," Hadhod said, his eyes now distant as he took another deep draw from his pipe.

"All sound and solid advice," Elegost said, no trace of mischievous intent hidden in his solemn gaze.

"And all easier said than done," said Hadhod in hushed tones.

Berethor grunted and leaned forward, his elbows upon his knees as he thought about Hadhod's guiding words. He took a large gulp of his drink before swilling the remaining contents and holding the drink up to the light of the fire crackling in the grate. As the wine in his glass swirled like a hurricane, his thoughts did the same in his head.

The next day, Elegost awoke in his own comfortable estate, dressed in plain breeches with a finely stitched tunic of emerald and gold. His name and lineage were of minor nobility before the war, which was why he had chosen to become a ranger, but after his part in the war, his status had skyrocketed. First off, he had been sworn in as the new leader of the Dunedain, in place of Faramir, who'd retired after finding love in the beautiful and fair Eowyn of Rohan. A few short days after the victory of Men, he was among the company that had been invited to the topmost level of the White City, so as to be rewarded for his role in ending the war. Everyone had been there to celebrate and receive personal thanks from King Aragorn and his fiancé, the soon to be Queen, Arwen Evenstar.

Many people had been there, some old friends, and some new, all of whom played large parts in the end of the Dark Lord. There was obviously the Fellowship, chief among them being the Ring Bearer, Frodo Baggins and his gardener, Samwise Gamgee. There was Berethor and his company of warriors and friends, whom had trailed the Fellowship and fought many battles so as to further the war efforts against Sauron, and there was even a group from the North, a trio comprised of a man, an elf and a dwarf, who spun quite the incredible tale of adventure involving rescuing a Great Eagle, blowing up a mountain and slaying a powerful sorcerer in service to Sauron.

Much to Elegost's surprise and pleasure, the food, drink, and company couldn't have been better. Stories of brave heroes and selfless acts were told, shared experiences from different perspectives were celebrated; and the kingdom was at peace. Aragorn, the King of Gondor, and Mithrandir, the White Wizard, had worked together to concoct a desperate attempt at ending Sauron's reign of terror, and while many had fought and died, Elegost got to survive and enjoy the company of people whose war stories rivaled his own. But that was some time ago, or at least it felt like it.

"My, how time makes fools of us all," Elegost said, stretching and thinking on the aches and pains of his body. He was by no means an old man, but for all his "youth" he still felt as if the war had left him old and tired… well, aside from his vibrant attitude, perhaps.

He had planned on exercising down in the fields by helping the people of Gondor dispose of the few remaining signs that a great battle had been fought upon Minas Tirith's doorstep, such as the Mumakil corpses, trebuchet ammo and, of course, the remains of the Witch King's body. They had actually begun to sink in and corrode the land, and now the area surrounding the Witch King of Angmar's corpse, and the carcass of his Fell Beast, was stained black as if one of the Valar had spilled a godly ink-bottle upon the field. Little enough grew upon the field as it was, but the blight of the Witch King's rotting remains left the land dead and fetid smelling. The thought of the scene sent a chill through Elegost as if he'd been doused in the icy waters of the Anduin. A knock upon his doorframe made him jump and spin about.

"Elegost!"

It was Berethor, looking strangely excited about something. What was more, he was dressed in his armor, a fine set of dark Numenorian steel plate from the second age. He also sported a navy cloak and upon his waist hung a fine sword that, according to Mithrandir himself, was a relic of the first age. He carried his helmet in the crook on his arm and his chest rose and fell as if he'd run there.

"Great Glorfindel's Gonads! You scared me to death," Elegost shouted, throwing the stone goblet he'd been about to drink from at Berethor, who shut the heavy wooden door to block the attack. He reopened it slowly, peaking his head around it to find Elegost clutching his chest and gripping a chair for support.

"Once more, Elegost. One more strike, and I'll have you in irons. There's a pattern of attempted assault and I won't stand for it," Berethor said with a grin, looking nervous as he slowly approached his friend.

"What do you want, Berethor," Elegost asked, "I was about to begin exercising!"

"Belay that action," Berethor said, "I have a proposition for you."

Berethor and Elegost took seats upon opposite sides of a fine oak table that gleamed brightly, no scuffs or dents to be found in the polished hardwood. The Captain of the Guard explained his scheme to the Captain of the Dunedain, and with each word Berethor spoke, Elegost grew more convinced his predetermined response was justified.

"Preposterous," Elegost said, his chin sitting in the palm of his hand, his elbow upon the table, "absolutely outlandish."

"I thought the exact same thing," Berethor said, that same excitably nervous energy still coursing through him like electricity, "but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense…."

Berethor's mind floated back to last night, where he'd laid awake in his chambers, staring at the moon through the bedroom window on the second floor of his estate. One of the perks of being nobility was that he could still look outside at night and see the stars and the moon, but on that night, they gave him little comfort.

"I was awake for hours," Berethor said, "nothing could still my thoughts, and Hadhod's words seemed to rattle around in my skull every time I looked up at the moon."

And so they had, in fact, Berethor had only gotten an hour or two of sleep, the dark circles under his eyes made him look slightly deranged when coupled with his excited antics.

"Finally, I decided that hell or high water, this was something that needed doing, or else sleep would never again come my way."

With that firmly instilled in his sleep deprived brain, Berethor had made for the very top of Minas Tirith, so that he might meet with the King. In the wee hours of the morn, he'd climbed the cold white stair to the summit of the city, but his way had been barred by a pair of halberd wielding guards.

"I thought I would have to wait until the sun rose for an audience, but it seems luck was on my side," Berethor said to Elegost with a satisfied smile.

The King, dressed not in splendid robes, but in a simple tunic and breeches, had been standing next to the White Tree of Gondor, the symbol of the Kingdom, and there upon its branches, small white buds were growing. Life had returned to the tree at long last.

"He had heard my attempts to meet with him and so he stepped out of the shadows and settled my dispute with those loathsome guards before asking me to join him for a stroll."

Berethor and the King walked, side by side, silence the only sound in the twilight before the dawn.

"What troubles you to seek me out at such an hour, Berethor," Aragorn had asked.

"My lord, Aragorn, I have favor to ask of you, and a large one at that," Berethor said, his voice loud against the sound of silence.

"Please," Aragorn asked, "you need not be so formal. A King I may be, but I am a man all the same."

Indeed, Aragorn looked less like a King now than he had before. His clothes were rather plain, likely the same one's he'd worn when traveling with the Fellowship, and his feet were bare. But for his simple fashion, it seemed to make his noble features stick out more, and he appeared almost to be as a wise, powerful immortal as he strolled leisurely around the grassy lawn atop the White City.

"All the same, sire, you are the only one who can grant my request," Berethor said quietly as he scanned the horizon for the rising sun.

"No," Aragorn said, "I cannot."

Berethor stopped, his pace dying as his heartbeat quickened. Could the King know of his plans, of the reason for his request? A series of harsh words came to the forefront of Berethor's mind, but before any could fly from his tongue, Aragorn had stopped and turned to face Berethor.

"You mistake my words for my stake in the matter," Aragorn said with a small sigh, "however, it is not my intention that you should not depart, what I mean to say is that it is not in my power to grant your request. You must decide whether or not it is worth it for yourself."

"You are saying that I must choose? But what of my stature, my duties," Berethor asked, "will they be here when I return?"

"Most definitely," Aragorn said, smiling, "I cannot Captain the Guard myself, so you will have to hurry back."

"But sire-"

"How do I know of your intentions to find the elven maiden you'd travelled with," Aragorn asked, raising an eyebrow and turning to survey the sun, which was beginning to paint the sky with brilliant hues of pink and purple, "well, I have been using much of my free time to recalibrate the Palantir that was left unfocused due to the previous Steward's poor mental state."

"The Palantir," Berethor whispered, watching the King's back as he stared into the distance, "you have Seen with it, lord? You know of my plans?"

"I know a great many things."

"My King, I would ask you-"

"You wish for me to tell you whether or not this journey will be worth it, if you decide to go," Aragorn said wearily, "but I cannot do that either. All I can safely say is this: if you truly care for someone, you should strive to let them know you care. No one, be it a King with a Palantir, nor the Dark Lord himself, can accurately predict the full power of love, nor can they restrain it. All we can do is follow the river, and paddle our boats when all currents have faded. If your love is not worth pursuing, consequences or no, then chances are it was not meant to be in the first place. With that said… I wish you a safe journey. I know you have a few friends here in the city as well, you should take them along with you."

"But that would leave the Dunedain, the City Guard, and the Emissaries of Erebor leaderless," Berethor objected, wondering how the King could remain so calm at the prospect.

"So it would… but I have used the Palantir to see more than just the current state of things. The future we will build will be a bright one, and you need not worry about an attack. Your company will be missed after a time, but I will play my part to make sure your absence is unnoticed," Aragorn said, turning to look at Berethor with a very serious look.

For a moment, the Captain of the Guard questioned his King, but something kept him from speaking his mind. As soon as his doubts appeared, they were struck down by the noble and wise presence of Aragorn.

"Thank you my King," Berethor said, holding a fist to his chest before turning and walking away quickly. Before he reached the stairs, however, he was already sprinting as fast as he could, his mind working furiously as he thought of the provisions he would need for his journey.

"You let him go," Arwen asked, stepping from the shadows of the palace and coming to a halt next to her husband.

"Of course," Aragorn said, "I know all too well the pain of not being able to be with the one you love. I wouldn't wish that horrid ache on my worst enemy… no, one way or another, I feel this will give him the closure he so desires."

 **Hello all, I recently finished my umpteenth playthrough of The Lord of the Rings: The Third Age, and I was stunned by the ending, particularly in regards to the Idrial/Berethor romance not taking place. As such I'll just remedy that via fanfiction. Now, I drew from the games, books and movies to write this fic, so you'll notice the reference Elegost makes when he recalled a company from the North (Lord of the Rings: War in the North), and you'll notice the Palantir, or seeing stone once more being used. You'll also notice that I referenced Aragorn as a wise and noble king, like the books, rather than a dashing ranger/warrior like the movies. You're welcome, I guess.**


	2. Chapter 2

"So we're leaving right this second to traverse Middle Earth and find Idrial, just so that you can have some form of closure that you really should've gotten before she left," Elegost asked as he belted on his sword belt over his old traveling clothes.

"Yes," Berethor said, still looking nervous, excited and slightly insane all at the same time.

"Well, count me in," Elegost laughed, "goodness knows I've always had a misplaced fondness for spontaneous and questionable adventures, and the city is so stifling."

Elegost smiled reassuringly at Berethor, who reached into a satchel that was slung over his shoulder and dug out a small object, wrapped in cloth. Removing the protective wrappings, he revealed a unique and shiny brooch, which he tossed to Elegost.

"I thought you might need it for our journey," Berethor said, "I've taken good care of it since you gave it to me after the war."

"So you have," Elegost said, turning towards a burning candle so as to get a closer look at the familiar brooch, "Second Age, forged in Imladris by Elrond's greatest smiths and imbued with powers of protection and sanctuary."

"Quite," Berethor said, "but I have done little else to it, save clean it and wrap it up. It's best that you carry it."

Elegost took up his cloak and slung it around his shoulders before fastening it with the same brooch he'd used during the war. It was an odd feeling to be fully garbed in his armor and carrying all of his weapons, but something still felt off. With a smirk, Elegost pulled up his hood, concealing his face in darkness.

"Well then, shall we be off," he asked, feeling as though he'd stepped back in time and his life as an aristocrat was an illusion.

"We've one more stop to make before our party is complete," Berethor said.

Knock, knock, knock.

A moment of silence was followed by footsteps as the occupant of Royal Ambassador's room got up and walked to the door Berethor had just knocked on. It swung open to reveal Hadhod, his hair and beard a tangled mess as he had clearly just gotten out of bed.

"Perhaps you humans are a bit hardier than us dwarves in that you don't ever go to sleep," Hadhod sighed, "but I am no human, and without proper rest I become quite irritable."

"I apologize for the intrusion Hadhod," Berethor said, "but I've had some time to think upon your advice, and nothing can be gained from sleep with so much to do."

"And nothing worth having comes easy," Hadhod nodded, "but sleep is far from easy to acquire these days, it seems. What do you need my boy?"

A few minutes of explanations left Hadhod standing with his back to the fire, his fists upon his hips as he stared down Berethor and Elegost, who looked less like fine men of Gondor and more like children who'd asked a favor of a disgruntled adult.

"So you'll be chasing down the she-elf in hopes that she hasn't already crossed the Sea into the Undying Lands?"

"Yes," Berethor said, his elbows on his knees and his fingers woven together like a wicker basket.

"And you wish for me to accompany you to what end," Hadhod asked, "why the blazes should I disregard my orders from the King Under the Mountain, and go traipsing off across Middle Earth in what is most likely a futile attempt at romance?"

"Intrigue," Elegost said suddenly.

"Adventure," Berethor supplied.

"Ale," Elegost burst out, thinking of things Hadhod liked.

"See the world!"

"Meet new people?"

"Enough," Hadhod said, crossing his arms and looking down at the both of them with watery eyes that were so unfocused Hadhod felt he might fall asleep standing up, "I can see that you have no real reason for going other than your love for Idrial."

"But-"

"That said, I would be remiss if I didn't join you to make sure you do this right, and properly act on the advice I gave you. Besides, one final trip, one last great escapade into the unknown would be most satisfactory for these lackluster muscles of mine," Hadhod said, "give me an hour to prepare, and I will meet you at the gate."

"But every minute wasted is-" Berethor began.

"A minute I will use to properly prepare, as I doubt either of you have taken into consideration just how far we're going, nor the exact route we will take. Also, I need to comb and braid my hair and beard, and ready my weapons and armor for use and travel."

Exactly one hour later, Hadhod trudged up the steps of the tower right next to the large doors that prevented invaders from waltzing into the city. At the top of the tower, he found a room with a single lit candle, and Berethor and Elegost hunched over a table, talking in hushed tones as they pointed at what appeared to be a map.

"The North-South road is the quickest and most direct route to the Grey Havens from here," Berethor said, his manic fire having died down a bit when replaced with clear and logical thinking.

"Ah, Hadhod," Elegost said, "anything to add? I think we have a relatively clear idea of the route we'll be taking."

"Indeed, I did intend for us to take the North-South road," Hadhod said, "however, I think we should skirt the road a few miles, except when we need to ford any rivers. I've no desire for the road, I seek the wilderness. As such, I've taken the liberty of procuring some camping supplies, and a hearty amount of fine liquors for us to drink as we travel."

"Camping supplies and liquor," Berethor asked, now looking positively devastated by the lack of a good night's sleep, "what will we do for food?"

"I've watched Elegost peg an arrow into an Uruk Captain at near six hundred yards, I think he can hunt for food, and you can skin it," Hadhod said, nodding to Berethor.

With their plan roughly hashed out, the trio embarked upon the quest to find Idrial, and took with them three fine steeds whose riders were lost during the war. As a sign of good faith, Eomer, King of the Mark, had graciously gifted the horses to Gondor in an effort to promote an accord that was sealed by the union of Faramir and Eowyn as husband and wife. The horses were strong, hardy, and above all they were so fast that the earth seemed to fly beneath Berethor and his compatriots as they left Minas Tirith, and turned towards the North so as to follow the North-South road straight to the Shire. They rode hard, with Berethor and Elegost riding quite comfortably as Hadhod held on for dear life, his legs strapped to the saddle with makeshift strips of leather, as he had refused to ride back saddle with Berethor or Elegost. The sun rose and climaxed, and the trio found themselves passing through the Druadan Forest, finally escaping its leafy expanse as the sun fell.

They made camp that first night in solemn silence, but after Hadhod broke out the stores of liquor, Berethor once more took stock of all things in his life that were important. Idrial chief amongst the concerns in his head, he fell asleep early, leaving Elegost and Hadhod to talk

"He's finally asleep," Hadhod said quietly, "so tell me Ranger, why did you choose to join Berethor on this seemingly needless quest?"

"Choose? He hardly gave me a choice," Elegost laughed, "but there was something there, a determined glint in his eyes, I suppose. I could tell that my friend needed the help, and I was more than glad to give it. Berethor would've done the same for me."

"That he would've," Hadhod sighed, his cheeks flushed with the effects of the drink, "but that does not answer my question, lad, why are you here?"

"Berethor is a good man, I think he deserves closure, one way or another," Elegost said tiredly, "and aside from that, I've watched him and Idrial for some time, and as high and mighty as the elves claim to be, they are still flesh and blood. They feel emotion, they laugh and love like the rest of us. Idrial deserves to know of Berethor's feelings, whether they are reciprocated or not."

"Will that have any bearing upon the she-elf," Hadhod wondered, "will she be convinced of Berethor's affections?"

"Who knows," Elegost sighed as he reclined against his sleeping bag, the alcohol making his thoughts warm and fuzzy, "but one thing's for sure: Berethor is dead set upon this venture, for good or ill."

The next day began as quickly as it had ended the night before, the packing of the camp was quick and unhindered, even though it had been months since they had performed those movements and they were down several party members. Within minutes the fire had been quenched, the bags were packed and every trace of camp was gone; a reminder of the extensive measures they had taken during the war, in which secrecy was of the utmost importance.

Once again, they took to the road hard, driving their horses harder than most of the mounts of Gondor could handle, but these were horses of Rohan, born and bred for harsh conditions and harder chases. This did nothing to exemplify the struggle of the riders, all of whom were rather chafed after two hard days' ride, but were subjected to it again and again. Berethor took the lead, spurring his horse without mercy and his eyes grew dark as he stared into oblivion. The finish line was over three hundred and fifty leagues away, at the ancient port of Mithlond, known to the non-elven folk as the Grey Havens.

And there, at the Grey Havens, Idrial the elf found herself lying awake at night upon the bed in a small guest room. It was in a fine elven hall built of beautiful white stone, likely carved out of the cliffs upon either side of the port. Even with all the pleasure, hospitality and entertainment Idrial could ask for she found herself belaying her journey, and each night she couldn't help but ponder what it was that kept her in Middle Earth. No, that wasn't quite right, Idrial knew what it was that kept her anchored to the shores of Middle Earth, or more accurately, _whom._

"Berethor," Idrial whispered, her blankets covering her in a massive cocoon. She'd told him that his fate was with the red headed warrior they'd met, and that she was the key to his affections. However, Idrial had lied.

'I cannot see into the future like my Queen,' Idrial cursed mentally, 'and I cannot undue what I have done, so why do I remain here? Why did I not leave with my people?'

Of course, elves still resided in the port city of Mithlond, or the Grey Havens as it was called by other folk, as it was a hub of culture and prosperity for Elvenkind in the North, but each time a great ship was built, more and more of her kin would sail away somberly into the Undying Lands across the sea. Not Idrial, though, she remained shackled to Middle Earth, and all because of one man, a Gondorian warrior who haunted her dreams, and had made her feel alive for the first time in her very long life.

They had spent so much time together as they trailed in the Fellowship's footsteps. They'd laughed, and sang songs of courage and pride in their cultures around a camp fire. They'd shared a moment or two of passion, their burning hearts lit up by the prospect of death in the face of the enemy, and they'd even found solace in each other's company when the camp fire had become low and the nights were cold and frosty.

"It's so cold," Idrial moaned, sniffling through her sickness and hoping for sleep to take her problems away, at least for a few hours.

She woke the next morning, still feeling unrested, to a knock on her door, which she answered with an incoherent grunt. Idrial's friend from before the war stood in the doorway. She was a fine elf specimen, from noble birth just like Idrial, and she wore her flaming red hair in a side braid. Her name was Laurial, and she was only a few years older than Idrial, but she was…different, even for an elf. For one thing, she behaved less like an elf of noble birth and more like a human than any elf Idrial had ever met.

"Idrial, get up you lazy- oh dear, still ill," Laurial asked, looking at Idrial as she sat up in her bed.

The blonde elven maiden was clearly very sick, which was an extremely uncommon instance for elves, as they were all but immune to disease. Laurial tutted and placed a hand fearlessly upon Idrial's forehead.

"Hmm, it seems your temperature is still quite high," Laurial mumbled, looking over Idrial's watery, bloodshot eyes, dry lips, and red, stuffy nose.

"Since when do elves get sick," Idrial groaned irritably, "to my knowledge, we are immune to all disease, save for the taint of the Shadow."

"And even then, we still possess some resistance," Laurial said, taking Idrial's hand in both of her own, "but don't fret, I've taken this case to the foremost elven expert on the subject of illnesses."

"Is there even such an elf in Mithlond that studies such rare occurances?"

"Yes, but he gave me some rather… unpleasant insights into the cause," Laurial admitted, not meeting her friend's gaze as she held her hand.

"So what is my prognosis," Idrial mustered as regally as she could, the image ruined by a line of mucus dripping steadily from her nose.

Laurial sighed, looking over Idrial with what could only be construed as a mixture of pity and remorse.

"When I spoke to her, she assured me that Elves were indeed unaffected by the maladies or ailments of humans and beasts," Laurial said quietly after wetting her lips, "however, illnesses have still been reported in our people… when they are in extreme distress. For instance, if someone you loved died or if you were caught between a rock and a hard place. I guess what happens is the sadness, anger or indecisiveness that you hold onto manifests as stress and creates an illness to force you to deal with whatever is it causing the illness."

"So that's it," Idrial muttered darkly, her eyes downcast to her blankets as she lay in her bed, weakened and feeble… all because of a human man not even half her age.

"Good afternoon, Idrial," another voice said rather formally, "I have come to inquire as to your plans."

"Good afternoon, Lord Celemerad," Idrial and Laurial both said, curtsying as best they could to the elven lord.

"My goodness, Idrial," Celemerad said, looking her over with a sad eye, "I cannot believe you've fallen ill! I had come to inquire as to whether or not you would be joining me on the next ship to sail from our harbor. It departs in a little less than a fortnight, but it seems you will be unable to make the voyage."

Idrial looked at the tall, handsome, silver haired elven lord with a mixture of awe and sadness. It would've been an honor to travel alongside him and his company as they made their way across the sea, but now…

"I still wish to leave with you," Idrial wheezed, making up her mind, "whether I am well or not, I cannot take advantage of this port's hospitality any longer. I belong at my Queen's side."

Celemerad looked concerned for a moment, but then smiled, coming forward to sit on the bed and lay a reassuring hand upon the shoulder of the bedridden elf.

"While I am concerned for your wellbeing, I think that in choosing to leave for the Undying Lands, you've taken the first step towards recovery. I was ill and worn down myself once, shortly after my beloved Celeim passed," Celemerad murmured, his mind lost to those hard times, "I thought I would never awaken from the terrible nightmare of it… I was weak and broken for months. I realized too late that I could not simply wait for the illness to pass, I had to take steps to move on and force it out, which is exactly what you are doing now… I wager you'll be in fine condition to travel, provided you are sure about leaving this land behind."

With another gentle pat and a peaceful blessing, Celemerad exited Idrial's room and left her and her friend, Laurial, sitting there looking at each other.

"I can't believe he came to visit you personally," Laurial said, "I barely ever see him leave Cirdan's side… and he actually sought you out to inquire as to your choice to leave with him."

"Well, we shall see what the fortnight brings," Idrial said tiredly, "but for today, I think I shall stay in bed."

"At least get up and move around your room," Laurial laughed, "read a book, write poetry, do something to take your mind from this dreadful illness!"

Idrial scoffed, though with her stuffy nose she simply might've been clearing her throat. She then gestured wildly to her bookshelves, all of which were filled with her favorite works by some of the most interesting and influential writers of every age.

"I've read all these," Idrial said scathingly.

"Well then, if you ask nicely I'll see about going to the library for you. Are there any books you have in mind," Laurial asked, standing from the bed and preparing to take her leave.

"Well… there is one… but it's very rare," Idrial said, her cheeks flushed with even more color as she thought of the book in question.

"Oh? What's it called," Laurial asked.

"The Tale of Beren and Luthien. It's about-"

"A human man and an elven woman," Laurial said, raising an eyebrow at her friend, "the romance epic?"

"Yes," Idrial admitted, not looking at her friend, "that's the one."

 **Hello all, sorry for the delay, I was writing this when I went back and realized I was simply rewriting the same scene from the last chapter so I had to go back and rewrite some more. If you happen to be a reader of my stories, you already know I'm a sucker for happy endings, but maybe I'll change things up this time, who knows? Anyway, thanks for reading. By the way, did any of you catch my reference to the new Tolkien book coming out? Yes, it's Beren and Luthien, the original elf/human love story from Tolkien. I figured it sort of played a part in this, plus I like to share things with people of similar interests.**

 **Music!**

 **Somewhere Over the Rainbow-Joseph William Morgan ft. Shadow Royale**

 **Definitely check out this incredible cover! It gave me the shivers.**


	3. Chapter 3

After several days of the most intense and driven horseback riding the trio had ever experienced, they found they were making incredible progress across Middle Earth. They had already reached the fords of Isen, which they crossed rather easily, and then they rode for a few more hours as the moon climbed high, until the three heroes finally came to ground once more, stepping off of the road to set up camp.

"Argh, my legs have never felt quite so tortured," Hadhod grumbled as he swung himself down from the saddle, nearly falling over when his boots hit the dirt.

"I can agree with you on that," Elegost groaned as he tenderly stalked around, looking for a good, dry place to make a fire.

"My legs feel fine," Berethor said, only to step down from his mount and miss his target. With a short cry, he fell and landed face down in the soft, fertile dirt of the land.

"I think you should be taking back that statement," Hadhod chortled as he squatted on a nearby stump and gingerly stretched his legs, "else I think I'll leave you there, unable to get up."

"Ah, no, please, feel free to leave me here," Berethor grunted and he used his arms to roll himself over, "this ground is so wonderfully soft, and I feel I could lay here forever."

"Well, no such luck, there, either," Elegost said, extending a hand to Gondor's Captain of the Guard, "come on, I'll need your help in the hunt, plus we have to tie off the horses and get them some water."

Berethor reluctantly took his friends hand, and together they fashioned camp as quickly as they could. Fortunately, they were upon a stretch of the road that ran along the Isen, so the horses had plenty of water. They were still panting, even as they cantered around, eating the local vegetation and drinking deeply from the Isen. Berethor and Elegost then set to work hunting, which was more akin to Elegost hunting, and Berethor frightening away any sort of prey with his uneven, clunking footsteps.

"My goodness, how you survived in the wilderness after banishment is beyond me," Elegost hissed as the same rabbit from earlier leapt and bound away for the second time.

"Supplies, mostly," Berethor mused, "and what I couldn't carry that held any sort of value was sold to purchase more supplies from small towns and villages I passed.

"That… makes a lot more sense," Elegost said as he turned to spot a large bird that would roast nicely over a fire, only for it to fly away when Berethor spoke.

Berethor was quickly sent to find firewood, which still needed done, and half an hour later, both Berethor and Elegost returned to the campsite, both clearly successful in their respective missions.

"Sit, lads, sit," Hadhod barked, already having broken out the stock of liquor and poured out three goblets of it.

Hadhod watched as Berethor and Elegost quickly started a fire on the dry wood, and then set up the large bird to cook over it.

"I forgot how good you were at starting the fires and gathering firewood," Elegost said, "I suppose that's why we kept you around during the war!"

"Something like that," Berethor said with a smile, once more lost in those days, when they had a group, a Fellowship all their own.

"Here," Hadhod said, distributing the drinks and ceremoniously offering up his goblet for a toast. Berethor and Elegost followed the dwarf's lead, raising their own goblets before drinking deeply of the spirits. For a time they listened quietly to the roasting bird as it was slowly turned over the fire. The skin was cooked until it was almost burnt, the end result being a succulent, juicy body to the meat, which was quickly salted by Hadhod and distributed evenly amongst the weary travelers.

"This is excellent Hadhod," Elegost stated, licking the juice from his fingers, "isn't it Berethor?"

Once more, as he had been so often these last few days, Berethor had become lost in thought. His food was getting colder by the second as he stared at the ground beneath his boots, the dark soil of the forest floor looking like an endless void in the darkness cast by the flickering firelight. Elegost jabbed an elbow into Berethor's ribcage and brought him back, as he had taken to doing whenever Berethor became mopey.

"Argh," Berethor growled, "I'm not sure how, but you hit the exact same spot every time… I've got a bruise there now, thanks to you!"

"You're welcome," Elegost laughed, "now eat your dinner, Berethor."

After one bite, Berethor's eyes widened and he quickly swallowed past the meat and exclaimed loudly, "Hadhod, this is easily the best poultry I've ever had! And all you did was salt it?"

"Aye," Hadhod mumbled, smirking as he avoided Berethor's gaze, "a little salt will do you wonders."

The rest of the night passed roughly the same as the others, with quiet, shallow conversation around the campfire until each of them finally turned in. Normally, Hadhod fell asleep first, his old bones needing the rest, while Elegost and Berethor stayed up for a few more hours.

"Aaaaaaaaaaaah," Elegost yawned, stretching as he pulled up his hood and prepared to go to bed.

A cursory glance at Berethor made Elegost realized how tired the Captain of the Guard must've been, but he remained steadfastly awake, his eyes reflecting the light of the fire as he poked it with a charred stick, small embers flying skyward like fireflies.

"You should turn in," Elegost noted, folding his hands over his chest, "we'll be getting up at the same time, but the further north we go, the darker days will become. I wager we'll be out of sorts by the time we reach Mithlond."

"I'll be fine," Berethor smiled weakly, not taking his eyes from the fire, "I could stay awake and drink all night, and I'd still ride harder and faster than both you and Hadhod put together."

"I'd take that bet, but I'd hate to bankrupt you, my friend," Elegost replied tiredly, deciding to leave it at that and roll over, using his sleeping roll as a blanket.

Berethor reclined against the log he'd been sitting on earlier and watched the flames writhe and dance without truly seeing them. Instead, he fixed a mental picture of Idrial in his minds eyes, beautiful and radiant as she cut through some enemy or another, a brightness in her eyes that was both fierce and inviting as Berethor reminisced.

He dozed for a time, weaving in and out of waking dreams as his fancies took him from place to place. A strange noise played in his head, and it took several minutes before he realized the noise was not simply a product of his vivid dreams. He woke with a start, only darkness meeting his eyes as he struggled to his feet. There was no campfire, he could not see his allies, and all around him he could hear wind, as if he stood in the center of a tornado.

 _"_ _Ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul,"_ muttered a cold voice that almost seemed to resonate from the wind around him, " _ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul."_

"You," Berethor uttered, his voice lost as the wind seemed to pick up around him.

Berethor could see nothing. It was almost as if the world he knew had fallen away, replaced with strange shadows and blurs. And still dark chant Berethor had heard before rang in his ears. He felt an implacable panic build within him, as if anything could lunge from the darkness around him in a moment's notice. For a moment, he backed away, unsure of what to do. Would drawing his sword even be enough against such power? A light seemed to shine suddenly in his heart as he remembered Idrial, how would she feel about his death? Would she care?

Suddenly, the fear he felt was replaced with a longing and sadness so great, the darkness around him couldn't break it. The fear that had once carved Berethor's face was gone, and now he looked angry as he drew his sword and glared into the void surrounding him.

" _Ash nazg thrakatulûk, agh burzum-ishi krimpatul_ ," the chant continued, picking up speed in an effort to dominate Berethor's mind.

"I do NOT fear you, Shadow," Berethor called out into the rushing wind. He smiled when he felt a sense of anger within it and he welcomed the chance to test himself against the malice. He would not let anyone or anything come between him and Idrial, let alone the shadow of the Dark Lord, Sauron.

"Submit to the will of the Dark Lord," whispered a voice behind Berethor.

It was a familiar voice that made Berethor's heart leap to his throat, and he turned to find Idrial standing there, partially embedded in the shadow. Her skin was bare as she beckoned Berethor into her loving embrace.

"Submit to her," a voice called from within the wind.

"I always have, and always will," Berethor said confidently, spinning his sword as he made for Idrial, "but you are not her!"

With one thrust, Berethor drove his blade into the Idrial, who shrieked as her visage faded once more into the shadows. Another cry was heard, echoing her own, and all at once the world once more became solid and whole. Berethor stood, his sword embedded in a tree, the forest around him quiet. Not even twenty yards off, the light of a fire could be seen flickering through the trees.

"Berethor," Elegost asked, placing a hand upon the warriors shoulder and making him flinch, "are you alright?"

"Um.. yes, I'm fine," Berethor said.

"You're sure," Elegost asked, covered in a thin sheen of sweat as he peered through the trees with wide eyes.

"Yes, I'm… just a bad dream is all," Berethor said, noticing how frightened Elegost looked.

"If you are talking about that darkness before, that Shadow… that was no dream, I saw it as well… I thought I was hallucinating, but I swear I could hear you, and I also heard…."

Elegost did not continue. He swallowed past a lump in his throat and gently pulled Berethor back to the campsite, the both of them shook as they took their seats back by the fire.

"It was him, wasn't it," Hadhod asked quietly, awake once more. It seemed that Berethor had not been dreaming after all.

"It was Sauron," Elegost said, nodding.

"Or whatever's left of him," Berethor grumbled, "I thought he was destroyed with the Ring."

"A foolish mistake to make," Hadhod said, looking at Berethor grimly, "do you really think anything can truly kill a being of Sauron's caliber? He's far more than a man, or a dwarf, or even the wisest of the elves… no, he is still alive, but I think there is no way for him to reclaim his power with the Ruling Ring destroyed. His power is broken, and he will likely spend the rest of his eons acting as a specter of the world. A shadow moving in the corner of your eyes, or a chill breeze across your back..."

"That was more than just a shadow in my peripheral vision," Berethor said, shaking as he clasped his hands around a clay mug of liquor, handed to him by Elegost, "that was more powerful than a Nazgul… even they couldn't paralyze me with fear as he did."

"If I had to speculate, he simply emptied what little power he had. Who knows, that display might've just completely dispersed him. For all we know, you may have just dealt the Dark Lord his true final blow," Hadhod said thoughtfully, taking a swig from his own mug before following with a sip of water from his waterskin.

"I'll drink to that," Elegost said, toasting Berethor with Hadhod as the Captain of the Guard once more looked at the light of the dying fire.

The next day, the three of them rose later than they ought to have, all sporting headaches and scowls as they did away with camp and prepared for the days ride. It came as a surprise to them all, however, when they saw their horses had left.

"Iluvatar damn it," Elegost cried, throwing down his pack as he looked for signs of the horses, noting that the saplings they'd been tied to were either missing or had had their leaves stripped away as the ropes ran their length.

"All the mounts are gone," Berethor muttered to himself as Elegost tried to keep his calm.

"It seems we've lost some time," Hadhod said, "perhaps we should all split up and search for the horses. Such fine steeds shouldn't fall into the hands of those who mistreat them, as I fear some unruly bandit would."

"No," Elegost said, carefully following signs of a trail that lead off north west, along the river, "I'll track the horses. You two continue along the road on foot, and I'll catch you up later."

"Elegost, what if the horses are taken, or dead? It makes more sense to just-" Berethor began.

"No, we've come too far. You must continue onward, especially if you plan on finding Idrial still in Mithlond," Elegost said, clearly flustered by the disappearance of the Rohirrim steeds.

"You're a good friend, Elegost," Berethor said before taking him by the forearm and smiling, "I'll be expecting you before sundown."

And with that, the two men broke apart, both sprinting in different directions: Berethor down the road, and Elegost into the forest.

"Count on it," Elegost yelled, turning for a moment to call out to his friend before resuming his loping gate into the wall of trees.

"C'mon Hadhod," Berethor shouted, "I'll race you to Mithlond."

Hadhod thrust the butt of his axe into the dirt before spitting, grumbling about humans, and taking off in slow, yet steady pursuit of the man on the road.

Elegost, ever the resourceful man, managed to track the horses by following the river and the constant flow of high, green grasses for the horses to feed on. When he came upon them, he found them in fine condition, though with their coats gleaming and their manes flowing majestically as they cantered about a small clearing.

"Perfect," Elegost said with a grin, mounting his own horse and hitching the other two to his saddle before taking off, flying as if Sauron himself was on his tail, which he very well might have been.

Much to Elegost's surprise, he found that the horses were not only fine, they were well rested and rearing to go, almost as if they hadn't just run halfway across Middle Earth. He thought briefly about sending a small token of his appreciation to Eomer, Lord of the Riddimark, to whom Gondor owed the steeds, for they were truly without equal.

Within what seemed to be minutes he found the road, and the horse, sensing that it had found the perfect place to run, lowered its head and charged, flying faster than Elegost believed to be possible. The hood of his cloak came free of his scalp, and his hair blew in the breeze as the force of the horses charge almost threw him from the saddle. He tightened his grip with his knees and grabbed hold of the horn of the saddle, pulling himself out of the way of the wind that sought to rush past him as his mount soared over ground like a bird through the skies.

Not an hour after Elegost found the horses, which in itself had taken several hours, he came upon the distant forms of two people, running quite hurriedly as they made their way across the great expanse of Middle Earth. Upon closer inspection, Elegost found that one was tall; the size of a man in fact, while the other was shorter, yet too broad to be a human child, or even a halfling from the Shire, like the Ringbearer.

"Hail, Berethor," Elegost cried out happily, "Hail Hadhod!"

"Hail Elegost," they cheered rather haggardly in return, slowing their gate as Elegost came up from the road behind them.

"Ah, my legs are now in even greater pain," Hadhod moaned, still feeling as though he were still running, as he had been for several hours without rest.

"I'm impressed you found them so quickly," Berethor said, gently stroking his horses gleaming coat and examining it up and down.

"I didn't," Elegost said, "but what I lost in time looking, the horses made up for in speed… never have I ridden a mount so grossly quick as these."

"Then let us be off!"

Hadhod and Berethor both mounted their steeds, looking rather pained as their legs cramped and were spread wide to accommodate for a horse and saddle.

"Let us take it slow at first," Hadhod insisted, "so that I might become accustomed to the pain."

"No problem," Elegost compromised, "I'd bet that by nightfall, we'll be within earshot of the River Greyflood!"

But they didn't make it to the River Greyflood, in fact, they were still sever miles from it when they decided to make camp for the night. Whether it was the compounding wounds of horseback riding, the mounting exhaustion, or their run in with the Dark Lord the night before, they found themselves so worn out and tired that it was all they could do to stare into the flickering flames, nodding off every now and again as the night grew dark around them. As per the norm, Berethor thought of Idrial, but the pain in his legs kept him tethered to himself as he gazed blearily into the flickering flames of the slowly dimming fire. Usually by that time in the night, he'd be lying awake, staring at the stars as he wondered about Idrial. He would ask himself if this journey was worth it even; what if he was rejected at the end of it all?

That was not the case now, however. The camp was silent, but Berethor found that he could only think of how devout his friends must've been for them to suffer as much as he was, all for a cause that would bring neither of his compatriots any sort of personal gain.

"I am pleased," Berethor said finally, his voice loud against the chill of the night, "that the both of you came along. I realize that the both of you are only doing this for me and… it means more to me than you know. No matter what happens at Mithlond, I am forever grateful."

"You really think we'd do this just for you," Elegost said suddenly, looking tired but smiling all the same, his eyes twinkling over the dark bags beneath them.

"It's not just that," Hadhod interjected, "this is effectively our last chance… these last few months have been a blessing, but soon things will become increasingly difficult. Our peoples need us. I will return to Erebor, Elegost will spearhead the Dunedain and push into enemy territory… and you will remain in Gondor, protecting the city as the Captain of the Guard. I expect it'll be some time before we are able to reunite like this again."

Berethor hadn't thought of that. He'd been surprised when he'd learned Hadhod was acting as an emissary for the King Under the Mountain, but he didn't even consider what would happen after he'd made it to Mithlond. It was obvious now that he'd been selfish, and more than a tad pigheaded. He'd completely ignored the limited time he had with his friends and instead chose to pursue Idrial, with no promise of victory. He felt a tear come to his eye for the first time since his banishment.

That had been a grim day, one of the worst in Berethor's memory, and it tugged at him even after his redemption, but now there he was; sitting around a campfire with two friends he'd barely known for as many years, yet the thought of them leaving was one of the hardest things for Berethor to imagine.

"Aye, I'll remain in Gondor… and if you ever send letters, I will be there to answer them. Should you ever need shelter or food or rest, my house shall always be open to you both. Idrial or no, I must remain true to my friends as steadfastly as I've remained true to her," Berethor declared, "I'll keep the city safe, while you push the advantage."

Berethor nodded at Elegost, who grinned and nodded back.

"And should you ever tire of serving under the Mountain, the Guard could always use a veteran's hand in their training… feel free to write and visit! I can even petition the King for an estate for you, and a noble title!"

Now he spoke to Hadhod, whose beard twitched with the smallest smile as Berethor made plans for all of them. It might not be for some time, but sooner or later, Berethor was determined to reunite them all, at least for a while.

"Training… I don't know about that," Hadhod sighed, "but I have thought about retiring… travelling the world, seeing new sights… I wouldn't object to the company."

And in Mithlond, the great Elven port city, Idrial was fast recovering from her illness. Laurial, Idrial's longtime friend and ally, found the blonde elven maiden in quite the lively mood as she watched her from the doorway.

Once again, Idrial was reading the Tale of Beren and Luthien, and with each line her face became redder and redder until she finally slammed the tome shut, combing her fingers through her loose hair, which still bore signs of braiding.

"And there it is," Laurial said, startling her friend as she stepped into the room.

"There what is," Idrial asked, her face becoming blank rather quickly.

"Whenever I see you reading that book you always get flustered, and then you get this look on your face, as if life is stretching out its hand to you and you don't know what to do."

"Well, that about takes the mithril," Idrial sighed, folding her arms over the book and laying her head upon it, as if hoping it might whisper the answers to her problems in her ear.

"So what is it," Laurial asked, "why are you acting so strangely? Idrial, I've never seen you like this. I'm the one who's expressive and lively. You were always so reserved and tame, whatever's troubling you must be quite the burden if you cannot pull yourself out of it."

"I…. I am in love," Idrial said finally, not willing to look Laurial in the eye as the red haired elven woman stared at Idrial for a moment.

"Oh my! I thought there was some tension between you and Lord Celem-"

"With a mortal man," Idrial finished, the statement shocking her almost as much as it did Laurial.

"Wait a moment… a mortal man… you mean that one you were travelling with, that one you told me about? But why?"

Idrial lifted her head and wiped away the wetness of her eyes before sniffling slightly and replying.

"Because I lied to him," Idrial admitted, "I told him he was destined for someone else, but in truth, the only thing I saw in his future was me… and it frightened me more than I'd like to admit, so… I lied."

"And now you're reading the Tale of Beren and Luthien," Laurial said, piecing it all together.

"Yes," Idrial said, "but it seems there will be no happy ending for us."

"C'mere," Laurial said, pulling Idrial into a hug and pouring all of her love and comfort into it, "it'll be alright, Idrial… you'll see."

 **Wow, I've been hammering away at this for what feels like eternity, and I've only got 3500 words to show for it? Well, I suppose that's what happens when time passes. You lose interest and things slip through the cracks. Moving right along, here we have more travelling, which I was planning on shortening quite a bit with a generalization so as to give this story conclusion, but then that Sauron scene hit just right and I just... well, I thought it fit quite well. A little excitement or what have you. Oh, Idrial also admits her love for Berethor, and Berethor realized that even if Idrial doesn't care for him, his friends will always have his back.**

 **I'm thinking that this fic will be coming to a close in the next chapter or two, so I suppose that's a bit of a plus. To those select few of you who have taken the time to read this fic, I sincerely thank you for bearing with it until this point. And if you're a fan of IdrialxBerethor... well, you won't be disappointed. I don't think. We'll see.**

 **MUSIC-**

 **Rueben Young-Take Her Down**


	4. Chapter 4

'This is it,' Berethor thought, 'the final leg of the journey.'

Berethor and his companions, Hadhod and Elegost, had come quite far in a very short amount of time, no doubt because of their excellent steeds and Berethor's constant push for the Elvish port of Mithlond. In the span of a few short days, Berethor had been driven mad by the memory of Idrial, spoken with the King of Gondor, and then proceeded to leave Minas Tirith with Elegost and Hadhod. He'd fought through sleep deprivation, the terrible and heart wrenching fear of rejection, and he'd even gone up against the shadow of the Dark Lord, Sauron.

None of this prepared him for what lay ahead, however, and when there were only a few short hours until the city came into view, Berethor found himself feeling rather ill. The company had slowed to a fine trot, and with every step, Berethor felt his stomach stir uneasily. After he'd come all this way, what if Idrial simply scoffed at his feelings?

What would Berethor do if his friends had gone all that way for nothing?

The answer to that was simple: Berethor would be eternally grateful. He'd already promised the both of them food, lodgings and the like, should they have need of it; and for their role in his journey, however it ended, he would be forever in their debt.

So the real question would be how Berethor would react. Would he fly into a rage? Would he fall to the ground bawling like an infant? He was a grown man who'd seen the horrors of war and conflict firsthand, but the horrors of the heart were new to him. Could he bear the heartache if Idrial were to turn him away?

"There is no need to look so gloomy, Berethor," Elegost said, smiling at the Captain of the Guard, "remember what you came here for."

And there it was: Elegost, Berethor's best friend and most loyal companion, was always there for him, whether they were destroying Uruk-Hai bands in Eregion, or participating in a cross-country race against time for a seemingly hopeless cause. Even when all hope was lost for him, Berethor's greatest ally continued to spur him forward.

"Aye lad, eyes on the horizon."

Hadhod, of course, was still there as well. The wear of travel had begun to seep through the dwarf's façade as his advanced age began to affect him, but still, he simply reminded Berethor to look forward into the future.

But even with all of his friends behind him, even with all he'd done and seen, even with the terrors Berethor had faced, the image of Idrial behind his eyes had turned against him. For the last few days, that image had kept him going when other men would have slept, or eaten, but now…

"I'm not sure I can do this," Berethor said suddenly, pulling on the reins for bring his horse to a standstill.

The city was nestled upon the horizon between a line of hills, silvery and pristine as the sun set behind it, but Berethor felt fear crawl beneath his flesh as he stared at the light.

How would Idrial react to Berethor's arrival? Would she know why he was there? Was it possible that she already knew he was coming?

Meanwhile, miles away from where Berethor's company sat, mounted upon their horses, Idrial was standing upon her balcony, watching the exact same sunset. Laurial, ever the caring and concerned friend, entered Idrial's room, smiling at how calm and peaceful Idrial looked as she gazed into the light over the harbor. The sun glinted off of the waters like the scales of a giant, shining serpent as the waves rocked to and fro.

"You look well, Idrial," Laurial said happily, leaning against the balcony railing with her friend as she, too gazed out to the waters of the Gulf of Lune.

"I feel well… finally," Idrial added.

"Have you given any more thought to what you're going to do now? What are your plans for the future," Laurial asked, fixing Idrial with a stare as she continued to look at the horizon. The blonde elven maiden turned and smiled at her friend for a moment before a gentle tear fell from her eye.

"I've decide to leave with Lord Celemerad," Idrial said quickly, holding up a hand at the same time to stifle her friend's slaughter of questions, "it's for the best. This is the most clear headed I've felt since…"

"Since you were with him?"

Neither of them needed to say it, but Laurial was of course speaking of Berethor, and the time Idrial and he had spent traveling together. Idrial sighed and tossed her braid over her shoulder as she often did when flustered.

"I knew it was a mistake to tell you about that," Idrial cursed.

"Mistake or not, you should not be so quick to turn and run."

"I'm not running from anything!"

Idrial glared at Laurial for a time, but when no more was forthcoming, Laurial turned away from her friend.

"I'll go speak to Celemerad," Laurial replied flatly, "you can leave with him at first light."

"Laurial," Idrial called, but it was too late. With the clack of leather boots upon stone and the swish of her long red hair, Laurial had disappeared.

Idrial let loose a sob.

She had been doing so well. After last night she had been so proud of herself for having kept it together, but losing Laurial's friendship was a major blow, and now it seemed she'd be leaving in the morning, before she would have a chance to apologize. With nothing left to do, Idrial gathered what was hers from the large, grand guestroom, and tossed it into a fine silk satchel. She rarely kept much on her person, especially since the fall of the Dark Lord. Finally, she lay in her bed, staring at the finely bound cover of _the Tale of Beren and Luthien_. If only there was some sort of answer to her problems, some sort of guidance hidden within the musty pages of the tome...

But there wasn't, there was no hope, and Idrial resigned herself to that. To think otherwise would be the height of folly.

A personal messenger from the House of Celemerad came to verify Idrial's intent to leave with the Elven Lord, and after a moment of hesitation, Idrial confirmed that she would indeed be accompanying him the next day. Idrial fell asleep quite easily that night, the events of her day coming to a sharp and painful point that left her craving some peace.

The next morning passed in what seemed to be a haze for Idrial, who woke late, made herself presentable, and was soon after met by the same messenger from the previous evening, who escorted her to meet the Lord of the House.

Celemerad was dressed rather plainly in fine sky-blue robes with a simple bronze circlet upon his brow. The elf-lord smiled before extending his arm to Idrial. It was a huge honor, most would agree, to lead a procession of the fair-folk as they made their way to the vessel which would ferry them to the Undying Lands of Valinor. Idrial, however, felt very little as she wrapped her arm through Celemerad's and, as one, took the first step in what would be a long and incredible journey.

But the journey wasn't what interested Idrial. She was more interested in what lay at the end of that journey: a place where she could finally rest and relax, and finally have the peace she'd fought for in decades passed.

With each step, Idrial came closer and closer to that very peace as she and Celemerad wound their way through the halls of his estate and shortly managed to find the pale light of the morning sun.

Mithlond, the Elven port, was called the Grey Havens by the race of men, and striding out into the foggy morning now, Idrial could understand why. There was a chill in the air, and the skies were all cast in a thick layer of clouds as the sun failed to break through.

The ship was in sight, rocking heavily at the port as the water churned from the winds. Beyond the Gulf of Lune was the Great Sea… but right now, Idrial would simply focus upon the ceremony of leaving, itself.

As tradition dictated, there would be a guide of sorts to the lands of Valinor. Idrial had been offered this position, and so when she and Celemerad arrived at the ramp leading to the ship, she turned and bowed to the Elven Lord, who smiled gratefully and returned her bow as he made his way into the deck of the ship. The company of elves that had followed them silently from Celemerad's house all mimicked their lord, bowing to Idrial before alighting upon the ship's main deck.

One by one, Idrial watched them bow to her and proceed up the ramp, until only she remained.

Idrial's sharp elven ears picked up a strange sound coming from the center of the city, where the market had laid when she'd passed through. It was faint, and sounded vaguely of celebration and revelry. She ignored it, turning to look at the city in all its glory, and knowing that she was about to leave everything she'd ever known behind.

A strange wind blew past her from the gulf, and she felt a sense of uncertainty strike her. Everything would be different for her from then on. All of her friends, and all of the places she'd been, from her favorite haunts, to the locations of her most death-defying battles, would be forever lost the moment she stepped aboard the ship.

Idrial turned back to the ship, where Celemerad and his kin were waiting for her. She stepped up the ramp, holding her head high as she looked anywhere but the faces of the elves before her.

"Idrial, WAIT!"

The voice was faint as footsteps pounded against the white marble of the port. From within the confines of Lord Celemerad's house came three figures, sprinting as fast as they could.

At the head was Berethor, and behind him ran Hadhod and Elegost. Bringing up the rear, and gaining fast were what appeared to be a loose assortment of gate guards and servants from Celemerad's estate, all of which were chasing the two humans and the dwarf. With a laugh, Elegost turned and fired a strange arrow that exploded into a fine dust upon impact. The effect upon normal humans, animals, and weaker Uruk-hai would stun them and render them unconscious for a moment, but with elves, they only seemed to slow down slightly.

"Guards," called Celemerad, gesturing for his men to take formation surrounding the ship.

Within moments, several of his guards had done just that, and with enemies upon all sides, Berethor raised his hands in surrender, followed closely by Hadhod and finally Elegost.

Idrial stood on the ramp leading to the main deck, her eyes wide as she visibly shook, though Berethor couldn't tell why. It was obvious she was surprised, but whether she was happy, or irate remained to be seen.

"Who are these men, and this dwarf, to storm our city… and my home," Celemerad asked.

"Elf Lord Celemerad," Hadhod said, dropping to one knee and indicating for Berethor and Elegost to do the same.

It took a moment, but finally they mimicked Hadhod, who had a very hard look in his eyes as he glanced at his comrades.

"Ah, you look familiar… Ambassador Hadhod, wasn't it," Celemerad asked, the stern look he wore lessening slightly.

"Aye, Lord Celemerad."

"Then tell me why two men and yourself have come all this way, and speak quickly, lest I think war is coming from the King Under the Mountain."

The statement left a chill pause in the air. The elves were a peaceful people, and hearing one speak of outright war was strange, to say the least. Without further ado, Hadhod cleared his throat and stood, staring into the azure eyes of the Elf Lord.

"No, sire, we of the Free Peoples of Middle Earth have no quarrel with your ilk. You'll surely notice that my companion's attack, while misplaced, caused no real harm to your men."

Hadhod gestured to the men encircling them, all of whom looked fine, though a few looked tired from Elegost's Arrows of Sleep.

"Noted, but not unexcused," Celemerad said quietly.

"Of course. Anyway, Elf-Lord, my companion here wishes only to speak in private… with her," Hadhod finished, pointing to Idrial upon the ramp, whose eyes widened even further, though she made no move to descend.

"And why should-" Lord Celemerad began indignantly.

"My Lord," Idrial said suddenly, turning to look at the blue-swathed figures, "I would deign to speak with him. I know this man, he means us no harm."

"But-"

"He was among those of us who actually fought the Dark Lord," Idrial said suddenly.

A murmur fell over those assembled as they heard Idrial's proclamation. The elves nearest Berethor glanced at him with narrowed eyes, as if sizing him up. Berethor, on the other hand, tried not to look offended as everyone did the talking for him.

"So this is the man who led your party," Celemerad asked, his shining blue eyes brimming with renewed interest as he surveyed Berethor, "the man who dealt the final blow?"

"Indeed, and I think he wishes only to speak to me for a moment," Idrial said hurriedly, "if I could-"

"Of course, you may speak with him. All I ask is that you remember the time you spent here in Middle Earth fondly," Celemerad said, a knowing look upon his face as he smiled and waved Idrial down the ramp. The guards parted, and so Idrial descended from the ship, coming to a halt before three haggard and travel-worn companions.

"Idrial," Elegost said.

"She-elf," Hadhod sighed, glancing at the Captain of the Guard, who was staring at Idrial rather blankly

"Idrial," Berethor breathed, hardly daring to believe it. He'd come all that way, he'd gone through so much, and finally here he was, standing before Idrial, who looked resplendent and… angry? Wait, was she angry at him?!

"What-no-by the-and all of you..." Idrial pinched the bridge of her nose for a moment before glowering at each of them in turn.

"Explain yourselves!"

Berethor, Hadhod, and Elegost were all suddenly thrust into the past, when Idrial was once a silent acquaintance on their journey. None of them really felt that they knew her, not even Berethor, but after a time, she became more and more motherly and caring… but now, that matronly anger was showing once again.

And still, Berethor was lost in the way Idrial's eyes sparkled. Still, he was absorbed in her stance and the way the chill morning made her cheeks flush with color. Just by being in her presence, he was so enamored that he forgot he was currently trespassing, and that Idrial was moments away from sailing off to the Undying Lands.

"We, that is- Idrial, I wanted to-" Berethor began sheepishly.

"Out with it," Idrial said loudly, the entirety of the port watching the exchange as Berethor quailed before the blonde elven maiden.

Berethor was shocked by how angry she was, and in an instant he understood why. He was, at that moment, just as frightened by Idrial as she was of him. He'd shown up, unannounced, chased by guards and simply demanded an audience, even though she was about to embark on what could be considered a once-in–a-lifetime journey.

For a moment, all Berethor wanted to do was apologize, insist he'd made a mistake in traveling all that way, and then depart. He wished to sacrifice his own happiness so that Idrial might enjoy herself, roaming around the Undying Lands, where eternal peace flourished and art and culture were nurtured.

But then his pride interfered.

Berethor's pride throbbed in his aching feet, his sore back and his tired limbs as he faced down with an angry elf. It fluttered in his heart as he thought about what all he'd gone through to get to Idrial, and how much farther he'd be willing to go, and so without any sort of hesitation, and without any sort of shame, Berethor decided enough was enough.

"I came here to tell you that I love you Idrial," Berethor stammered, loud enough for all assembled to hear, "I came here to tell you how much you mean to me! Idrial, I broke off my marriage, I travelled all the way here to the Grey Havens-"

"And now what? You expect some sort of reward?"

"No! I knew full well that when I got here you'd likely turn me away! I knew that when I came here, you'd act like you are now, but I'm done suffering in silence!"

Berethor turned to all the elves, not just the guards surrounding him, but the civilians as well, raising his voice so that it rang out, loud and brazen over the crowd.

"I love Idrial! I'd go to the ends of the earth just to tell her that," Berethor roared happily, turning once more to face the blonde elf, who was now so red in the face she might've been a strawberry, "and now I have."

With that, Berethor stepped forward and dropped to one knee, and all the elven folk gasped, thinking that Berethor was about to try and garner a marriage, then and there.

"Farewell, Idrial. Know that I will always think of you fondly, and I hope… I hope you will do me the same courtesy."

Berethor stood gave a bow to Celemerad before turning and walking clear through the encirclement of guards and making his way, leisurely, towards the city gates, the road, and the incredibly long and slow journey home, to Minas Tirith.

"I lied," Idrial whispered, her head filled with magical moments spent with Berethor, before the fall of Sauron.

Even during the war, where all seemed lost, and it was just Berethor, Idrial and their companions around the campfire, Idrial couldn't have felt more at home with the disgraced Captain of the Guard. There had been so many tender conversations between them as they'd laid upon the cold stone of the Mines of Moria and stared up into the dark ceilings above. They had shared a few kisses here and there as well, and when Idrial had told Berethor of his and Morwen's fate together-

"I lied," Idrial called again, all of the good times they'd shared coming forward at full force, like a mental waterfall, "Morwen was not your destiny."

"Destiny is a funny thing, Idrial," Berethor called back, not bothering to look over his shoulder at the woman, "I've never really believed in it."

"Then believe in this."

Berethor felt a gentle breeze rush past him, and he spun around, only to find Idrial's arms already around him, her lips pressed upon his as they gently rocked to and fro. A cry went up from Elegost and Hadhod, who'd been slowly trailing after Berethor, and quickly transferred over to the elven crowd as everyone cheered.

Celemerad smiled, knowing that his vision from earlier had come to pass. Idrial was a fine woman, but she did not love Celemerad, and after his first wife, the Elf-Lord was not eager to replace her. He took his hood from his head, and with a sigh he urged the ship away from the port, strong eldritch magics pushing and pulling at the ship as it wound its way across the Gulf.

But that is where we find ourselves losing track of the main event, where Idrial and Berethor reunited at the Grey Havens, and finally found the courage to love each other.

One month later, Berethor returned to Minas Tirith, and he said goodbye to Elegost and Hadhod, who'd stayed at his side through thick and thin. He then took Idrial to be his bride, and they were married in a ceremony ordained by the King himself.

Gondor, Rohan, and all of Middle Earth was still reeling from the War of the One Ring, but even with all of the sadness, death and despair, light was found in the hearts of these two young lovers… and unlike Beren and Luthien, they both lived to tell about it.

 **Who doesn't love a happy ending, am I right? In truth, I'm quite pleased with how the latter half of this chapter turned out. I had a general scene ready in my head, but this turned out quite nicely. In the end, Berethor and Idrial end up married together, in Minas Tirith. Berethor better be happy, cause Idrial pretty much gave up Heaven (Valinor) to be with him.**

 **And so concludes another of my stories! If you have no idea who these characters are, I'd suggest you get yourself a Playstation 2, and a fun little game called Lord of the Rings: The Third Age. It's a turn based strategy game that really couldn't have been done much better. This fic just gave the characters a proper ending, and a little more fleshing out.**

 **To those of you that took the time to read this fic, I am eternally grateful. I know it was sorta slow and angsty, but I mean, c'mon, that ending was worth it... right?**

 **Also, the Tale of Beren and Luthien should be out soon, if it isn't already! Go and get it!**


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